Brian London, M1, Class of 2028
The sailor seeks the harbor’s hush,
Storm-drunk skies in twilight rush;
Hands wear soft with salt and rope,
Anchored gently, held by hope.
Heart is compass—battered, brave—
Pulses tide through calm and wave;
Veins trace currents, azure lines,
Charting truths in coded signs.
Nightfall stitches wounds unseen,
Shadowed healer, grace serene;
Gentle darkness, kindest balm—
Cloaked embrace and sacred calm.
Morning breaks with sterile breath,
Charts and numbers, life and death;
Whispers stir the white coat’s tone,
Battles rage—but not alone.
Beneath the calm, a silent war
Flares in blood and myth and lore;
Scars map quietly across his skin,
Each one proof he dares to win.
He seeks no crown, no cure, no praise,
But strength to rise through brutal days;
He greets the dawn with knowing eyes,
And sails beyond the painted skies.
Some winds he chases far, too fast—
Lightning-veined and burning past;
Bright hours borrowed, nights repay
In aching hands and hues of gray.
He stitches name in unseen thread
To panels never truly shed;
A patch of flannel, denim torn,
A sailor’s coat, forever worn.
Each panel hangs with silent pride
For dancers fierce, and lovers died;
For drag queens crowned in sequin light
Who kiss the dark and name the night.
Needle arcs, a whispering seam—
Memory quilted into dream;
His chart is cloth, not lines or lore—
A body woven, still at war.
Speed remains a whispered friend,
Sharp and silver, hard to end
But even fire fades to coal,
And softer sparks revive the soul.
The hush between the sirens speaks
Of hearts that break, yet never cease;
And still he sails—his course not done—
His mast aglow with setting sun.
Hope blooms now and always near,
Petals part through yesteryear;
Lighthouse pulse, soft and sure,
Guides all hearts that will endure.
Not by blade, nor harsh decree—
He lives through constancy;
Not cured, perhaps—but wholly true,
Alive in every shade and hue.
He wears no collar, robe, nor ring,
But hums the psalms the sea will sing;
A priest of balm and brackish years,
Tending faith with salt-wrought tears.
His altar waits—a folding cot,
A wrist-bound tag, a coffee spot;
Yet still he blesses what’s unnamed—
The fevered breath, the burning shame.
He chants the prayers he never learned,
Lights candles where no fire burned;
And with each drop his blood makes red,
He vows to raise, not bury, dead.
He loves in ways no law contains—
Not fireworks, but fire and flame;
A second key, a steady hand,
A name carved soft like tides in sand.
When others flee, he stays instead—
He tends the sick, the cold, the dead;
He wears the rings no court could bind,
But lives each vow in flesh and mind.
One love, then two—then none again,
Yet walks with purpose through the rain;
For every bond he holds or lets
Still breathes inside him, never sets.
So if you find this sailor’s name,
In corner-stitched or gentle flame—
Know that storm and silence passed
Could not by force unmake his mast.
Not healed, perhaps—but wholly true,
Alive in every shade and hue;
A sailor, priest, and lover still—
Who dares the dark, and sails it still.
Now stand. Be counted. Name the cost—
Of every sailor tempest-tossed.
Should mercy’s path unfold in sight—
Choose not the shore, but brave the night.
And when you speak, speak just and kind—
For you know not whose ears your words may find.
Med Intima 